


12:48 Shipping Broadcast, Wight

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [14]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mash-up, Sherlock-Good Omens crossover, Storm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: A storm comes in, and relationships grow and bloom further. A community is forming.This does not accomplish obvious things, I suspect. But many important things are not obvious.





	12:48 Shipping Broadcast, Wight

It had been the fourth day at the estate, and the weather had been closing in from early afternoon on. Dark clouds had hung low to the southwest, and a choppy wind had forced its way down the English Channel from Land's End east, churning up whitecaps and rattling the palm fronds.

“Weather coming,” they’d all been saying to each other, all day. “Get everything in. There’s weather coming.”

“Which is ridiculous when you think about it,” Mycroft said. “Of course there’s weather. We’re hardly in outer space surrounded by vacuum. And we’re in _England._ Weather is what we _do._”

Nonetheless they had said it, like a chant or incantation. “Weather coming. Looks like storms. Get the lawn furniture into the sheds. Cover the fire pits. Bring in any towels and suits you have hanging out. Rosie, don’t leave your shoes out, the rain would ruin them and they might even blow away. Sherlock, don’t leave that pile of papers heaped poolside. Janine, you’ve not been down here, be ready for—what? Oh. Right, sorry, I forgot you lived locally. Of course you know the climate. Lestrade, you, however, are a London boy. Be ready for fireworks. John—if you’d be so kind as to bring in the flag and store it properly? Not right to leave it out in all weathers. That’s a good man…”

The sky had grown slowly darker, with the light taking on a peculiar greenish tint, as though they were the drowned kingdom of Ys, far under the surface of the water. The surf grew fierce, churning up and down the beach, and Rosie, looking down from the cottage veranda, whimpered. She went and curled up in the little under-stair bedroom of the house with her pillows over her head, trying not to hear the wind and the water so close by.

“What’s for dinner?” Janine asked.

“Oyster stew,” Mycroft murmured gleefully under his breath, as he was still indulging in little cups of the Angel’s miraculous soup during his days and nights—like having a precious cache of smuggled brandy in wartime, or a cache of chaste homemade shortbread to see one through Christmas with its too-lush barrage of sweets. Oyster stew was his refuge and his strength, he thought blasphemously, a very present help in trouble. But he knew the rest wanted something else…some wanted anything else, and would have gone down on their knees to beg for it.

“Why not a pea soup,” he said. He’d made sure the pantry was properly stocked, and he knew he could make a good one with yellow peas and meaty ham hocks.

Janine said, “Why not something a bit livelier? I brought what I need to make an American chili.”

And Mycroft, with a sigh and a fond consideration of the Angel’s bottomless pot of stew, agreed, forgetting that the most appropriate chili pot in the kitchen was also the oyster stew pot…

He was lucky Janine knew how to cook. She was lucky the angel lived next door and Mycroft could console himself that with luck he could talk the angel into making more oyster stew if he asked nicely.

In any case, the rich scent of meat and onions, cumin and coriander, beans and tomatoes, chili powder American-style, came rolling through the house as the storm winds rose over the long afternoon and evening. By sunset the chili was ready, with massive heaps of home-made paratha cooked Daadi Akram style to go with it. The adults drank beer and wine. Rosie drank milk. There was a huge bowl of rice pudding for desert. Sherlock grumbled until he tasted it, then hung his head and let Janine torture him a bit for his “crapshite manners—really, Sherlock!”

The winds were horrible by then. Mycroft closed off the folding metal shutters that protected the plate glass windows, and sent John and Sherlock to do the same down at the cottage. Rosie was going to go with them—but the first lightening struck the water just as she was heading out, and the wind gusted, and the thunder rolled in from the channel, and she squeaked and raced into the big house and cried.

“I hope Az and Crowley are safe,” Sherlock shouted, as he and John pulled the shutters into place and locked them down. “You don’t think they’d fly in this, do you?”

“Not unless they’re wrapped in miracles,” John shouted back—still unable to believe he was saying things like that and meaning them. “Watch out, man—it’s a good thing you weren’t wearing the Belstaff—you’d have been blown away!”

“No, shit.” Sherlock grabbed John by the elbow and leaned close. “Back up to the house. Might as well all stay together safe tonight. Rosie will feel better.”

Which she would, John realized, and wondered how often his daughter felt alone with just him to look after her. For years she’d living with him and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, a larger family than she had now…

In the cottage next door, Aziraphale and Crowley were out on the veranda, anchored secure by a miracle or two, waiting for the storm.

“Reminds me of Eden,” Crowley said.

“Or of Noah,” Aziraphale agreed. “Bad weather. Bad.”

“Kraken weather.”

The white wing which had sheltered the demon from the first spits of water moved, buffeting him lightly. “Don’t even joke about it, foul fiend! Let that old bugger stay where he is, forever and ever…world without end, amen.” He had taken to adding that phrase to his prayers since Armageddon had failed to occur.

Crowley chuckled, hunching low under the drape of his own wing—but he huddled close to his angel when Aziraphale returned his wing to its reliable place, guarding him from the storm.

Big bad demon, he thought of himself with wry amusement. But from the day of the first storm, on Eden’s walls, until the present, he could no more resist leaning into the sheltering comfort of Aziraphale’s side, like a shivering chick under Aziraphale’s wing, than he could give up mischief or gargle holy water.

“Love you, angel,” he said, curling into the side of the shorter man, ducking down to fit in spite of feeling like a giraffe beside his lover. “What’s for dinner?”

He asked because he knew Aziraphale would have something planned, and be quite chuffed about it. He was right.

“Spag bol,” the angel said. “The good kind, with three different meats stewed all day and cream to finish and a big loaf of Italian bread on the side.”

“Pardon my manners, but I must say I haven’t seen any sign of three meats simmering all day, much less fresh baked bread.”

“Beast. That’s what pressure cookers are for—pressure cookers and miracles. Now, let’s get our flight in before it’s too late and the rain sets in. Nothing worse than having to dry out feathers….”

And the two opened their wings and soared into the churning winds. Because, yes, they could wrap themselves in miracles, and there was something seductive about navigating the tempest…

At the Holmes estate, Rosie was put in one of Sherlock’s t-shirts (“He’s skinny enough it almost fits—turns it into a perfect nighty…”) and settled into a bed in her father’s room, made up of sofa cushions and spare duvets and heaps of pillows.

“It’s around the back side of the house, _a mhuirnin_,” Janine said, as she put the child’s hair into two short braids and tucked her in close and secure. “Your Da will either be out in the sitting room wi’ us, or in here wi’ you. And the wind’s from the other side entirely. You’ll be safe and warm and right and tight here, you will.”

Rosie snuggled into the blankets, and hugged a pillow close. She felt safe—safer here, at the road side of the big house than at the sea-side of the cottage. She could still hear the wind and the distant churn of the surf, and the first spit of rain here and there on the roof and walls—but she felt cared for and guarded.

“Do you think Angel and Crowley will come over?” she asked.

“I think Angel and Crowley are watching over us all,” Janine said, “But I don’t know if they’ll come in, or just keep guard over us. Either way, they’re here for you, love.”

When she went back out she sent John in behind her, to tuck his daughter in. She had the uneasy sense he’d think if she did the job, it was done and done right, and no need for more from him. A shame the man had lost his wife. From all Sherlock said, she’d have at least had the sense to know a child wants her own folks to tuck her in and kiss her for the night…

Poor wee thing…

She’d have to take over the teachin’ of the man, just as she’d have to take on Sherlock. The great gobshites were like as not to make a mull of it without their Mrs. Hudson at their elbows or the lost Mary there to scold. (She thought for a moment that perhaps Mrs. Hudson would like a ‘job’ looking after John in whatever home he came to stay in. She never thought for a moment of the pale, fair ghost who smiled and sent blessings on ‘Sherlock’s squeeze.’)

The angel and the demon came in from their flight, wild-eyed and feral, alive with the glory of it all. They raced each other into their cottage, and together provided a combination of pressure cooking and culinary miracles to provide themselves (well, mainly Aziraphale) with a rich sauce of pork shoulder and beef chuck and osso bucco laced with parsley and onions and garlic and tomato sauce and cream and so on.

“You are a lucky angel,” Crowley said. She’d changed to her Nanny Ash form, and was wrapped close in a terry robe and wooly slippers, her hair allowed to run long down her back. (And excuse for Crowley to whine and fuss until Aziraphale brushed it out, in front of the fire, and braided it into one long queue…) “If you were human, you’d have indigestion and acid reflux and wouldn’t be able to eat something this rich this late without heartburn.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale chirped. “Much better this way. One would hate to have to plan all one’s meals around a weak digestion.”

Crowley sniggered. “May-She-Who-Cannnot-Be-Named forfend. How do you think our neighbors are now?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I believe they are fine. You noticed they were all up in the big house, didn’t you?”

“Better for the child,” Crowley agreed. “Do you think they’re taking proper care? She’ll be afraid. It’s a big storm, and she was half drowned only the other day.”

“They’ll take care,” Aziraphale assured him.

“I can check.”

“You can trust.”

“Trust and verify,” Crowley said, and wrapped himself in a huge yellow rain slicker over her robe, and wrapped her nice new braid around her neck like a scarf—or a serpent—and robed herself in miracles and an invincible umbrella, and raced next door just to be sure.

“She’s fine,” Janine said, handing the demon a tea towel to wipe her face from the rain. “Made her a nest on the floor in her Da’s room, all fit and proper and she can crawl in with him if she gets scared in the night. But she may not need to: it’s a right proper sort of a nest, with too many cushions and blankets all over and it’s just right for a wee lass to play kitten in.”

“She plays she’s a snake in the sun,” Crowley said, and no one asked how she knew, or when the child had told her. They just knew she was right. “Send her my love when she comes out for final hugs…yes, she will. A glass of water and a little flirt with everyone, and final hugs, and one more tuck-in from her father, and then she’ll be off like a light, unless the thunder wakes her.”

And she was gone, back into the night.

John could not decide what, of all that, was stranger; that everything Nanny Ash predicted came true; or that “Nanny Ash” was Crowley the demon, who mere hours before had been a man, or that his daughter was guarded over by a Principality, a demon, The British Government, an MET DCI, Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes’ crazy Irish girl.

Any of it was crazy enough. He sent the ever-present ghost of Mary a stray thought. “You’d like them all so much. They’re nothing I could have imaged—but they’re there for us, Mary. We’re not alone.”

“Of course not,” the ghost whispered. “But she’s going to wake you up in the middle of the night from thunder, love. Be ready for it.”

He wasn’t…but he got up to speed fast.

Nanny Ash was met on the public access path by her Angel…she-angel, round and pink and fair, and naked as the day The Lord God had made her. Her hair was long and blonde and braided into two plaits, like a Valkyrie’s. “Swim in the pool, love?” she shouted to her beloved.

Nanny Ash nodded and fled to the house first, where a damp Angel helped her out of her slicker and robe and slippers, and into her bare skin. From there the two scurried out into the black night and the high wind and the warm waters of the pool. They arrived just in time, as the skies opened up and the waters poured down.

There was something about being Nanny Ash with her Angel…something Crowley needed with a hunger she could not explain. Most days he was happy as himself. Or any of a dozen other selves. He loved being Lilit, with her red hair, present at the Crucifixion. He loved being the serpent, coiled huge and heavy in the sun on the beach, the sand never too hot for his snake self. He loved being snaked-hipped Crowley, master of a dozen styles and fashions, each one cooler than the last.

But being Nanny Ash in the tender arms of Angel healed something in him—something he normally pretended was not wounded and bleeding.

“Come here, love” Angel murmured, already knowing her demon needed her. “Come here, sweetheart.”

In no other form did the two find Angel so outspoken, so doting. In no other form was Crowley so able to melt into a lover’s arms without sarcasm or resistance. She allowed herself to be cradled by the shorter woman, to float in the frothing waters of the pool, held up by strong arms and comforting waters.

They found each others mouths and kissed, rainwater flowing down their faces, the chill water pouring through their hair. Their hands explored each other, cupped breasts, touched nipples. They came to rest on the wide concrete stones at the shallow end of the pool, where Nanny Ash lay in her Angel’s arms, on her Angel’s lap. She let her slim thighs fall wide, and brought her Angel’s hand to her mound, even as she leaned hard into the strong embrace of Angel’s other arm. She twisted, and sank, and found Angel’s breasts, and suckled and teased, return favor for the fingers that explored her folds and tickled her clit.

“Need,” she managed to get out—and nothing more.

“Shhhhh,” Angel said. “It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.”

Angel was so strong when they were together as Nanny and her love. Strong and sure, comforting and careful, a skilled lover who could build their desire slowly, slowly, in the pounding rain that swept the English channel and scoured the Downs.

“That’s my good girl. That’s my Nan,” she whispered, and Nanny leaned close and mewed in desire, and squirmed until she could touch in return—each doing for the other, heads bowed close, Lilith and her Valkyrie, Crowley and Aziraphale, together in the rain.

They climaxed amidst lightening and thunder, and shouted their release to the wild heavens.

In the house next door, a child woke, and crept into her father’s bed. He grunted, and allowed her in, and folded her close, and fell back to sleep.

On the floor above, two men made love in the big bed of the master bedroom.

“You’re really ready to retire?”

“Ready and past. And you’re ready to go part-time consulting?”

“Yesssss—oh, more of that. Oh—yes. Good.”

“Mmmm. Listen to it come down.”

“A corker. Could as well be the end of the world.”

“Or the beginning.”

“Nice here, though. With you.”

“Mmmm.”

“Budge over. That’s right. What do you want tonight.”

“Anything. You. That’s all. You.”

They wound around each other, and touched, and grunted in the dark night, in the pitchblack behind the shuttered windows.

“Love you, Mike.”

“Love you.” Mycroft gripped tight, as his climax rose.

They were silent as they came, barring the short, hot breath forced out through their teeth and the restrained little grunts as the ecstasy flooded over them. The house was full of guests—who knew who’d hear? So they were silent…but no less content than the angel and the demon next door. (Or the man and woman who coiled together in the second guest room, each finding secure contentment for the first time, amazed at the miracle of passion and safe anchor in one perfect bond…)

When the men were done, one rolled over and switched on the radio built into his smart phone.

“Shipping broadcast, Wight,” he murmured, over the sound of the still gusting wind.

“Fair weather tomorrow,” the other said, cuddling into his lover’s side and burying his face in his lover’s neck.

“So they say,” the first said, dubious but willing to suspend disbelief. “Perhaps we can have a picnic.”


End file.
